 11. William and the Smuggler. William's family were going to the seaside for February. It was not an ideal month for the seaside, but William's father's doctor had ordered him a complete rest and a change. "'We shall have to take William with us, you know,' his wife had said as they discussed plans. "'Good heavens,' groaned Mr. Brown. "'I thought it was to be a rest-cure.' "'Yes, but you know what he is,' his wife urged. "'I daren't leave him with any one, certainly not with Ethel. We shall have to take them both. Ethel will help with him.' Ethel was William's grown-up sister. "'All right,' agreed her husband, finally. "'You can take all responsibility. I formally disown him from now till we get back. I don't care what trouble he lands you in. You know what he is, and you deliberately take him away with me on a rest-cure.' "'It can't be helped, dear,' said his wife mildly.' William was thrilled by the news. It was several years since he had been at the seaside. "'Will I be able to go swimming?' "'It won't be too cold. Well, if I wrap up warm, will I be able to go swimming? Can I catch fishes? Are there lots of smugglers smuggling there? Well, I'm only asking. You needn't get mad.' One afternoon Mrs. Brown missed her best silver tray and searched the house high and low for it wildly, while dark suspicions of each servant in turn arose in her usually unsuspicious breast. It was finally discovered in the garden. William had dug a large hole in one of the garden beds. Into the bottom of this he had fitted the tray and had lined the sides with bricks. He had then filled it with water and, taking off his shoes and stockings, stepped up and down his narrow pool. He was distinctly aggrieved by Mrs. Brown's searches. "'Well, I was practicing paddling. Ready for going to the seaside. I didn't mean to ruin your tray. You talk as if I meant to ruin your tray. I was only practicing paddling.' At last the day of departure arrived. William was instructed to put his things ready on his bed, and his mother would then come and pack for him. He summoned her proudly over the balusters after about twenty minutes. "'I've got everything ready, mother.' Mrs. Brown ascended to his room. Upon his bed was a large pop-gun, a football, a door-mouse in a cage, a punch-ball on a stand, a large box of curios, and a buckskin, which was his dearest possession, and had been presented to him by an uncle from South Africa. Mrs. Brown sat down weakly on a chair. "'You can't possibly take any of these things,' she said, faintly but firmly. "'While you said put my things on the bed for you to pack, and I've put them on the bed, and now you say, "'I meant clothes.' "'Oh, clothes!' scornfully. "'I never thought of clothes.' "'Well, you can't take any of these things, anyway.' "'I must have the pop-gun, because you never know. There may be pirates and smugglers down there, and you can kill a man with a pop-gun if you get near enough, and know the right place, and I might need it. And I must have the football to play on the sands with, and the punch-ball to practice boxing on, and I must have the door-mouse, because to feed him. And I must have this box of things, and this skin to show to folks I meet down at the seaside, because they're interesting. But Mrs. Brown was firm, and William reluctantly yielded. In a moment of weakness finding that his trunk was only three-quarter filled by his things, she slipped in his beloved buckskin, while William himself put the pop-gun inside when no one was looking. They had been unable to obtain a furnished house, so had to be content with a boarding-house. Mr. Brown was eloquent on the subject. If you're deliberately turning that child loose into a boarding-house full, presumably, of quiet, inoffensive people, you deserve all you get. It's nothing to do with me. I'm going to have a rest-cure. I've disowned him. He could do as he likes." "'It can't be helped, dear,' said Mrs. Brown mildly." Mr. Brown had engaged one of the huts on the beach chiefly for William's use, and William proudly furnished its floor with the buckskin. "'It was killed by my uncle,' he announced, to the small crowd of children at the door who had watched with interest his pains-taking measuring of the floor in order to place his treasure in the exact centre. He killed it dead, just like this. William had never heard the story of the death of the buck, and therefore had invented one in which he had gradually come to confuse himself with his uncle in the role of hero. It was walking about, and I, he, met it. I hadn't got no gun, and it sprung at me, and I caught hold of its neck with one hand, and I broke off its horns with the other, and I knocked it over, and it got up and ran at me, him, again, and I just tripped it up with my foot, and it fell over again, and then I just give it one big hit with my fist right on its head, and it killed it, and it died. There was an incredulous gasp. Then there came a clear high voice from behind the crowd. "'Little boy, you are not telling the truth,' William looked up into a thin spectacled face. "'I wasn't telling it to you,' he remarked, wholly unabashed. A little girl with dark curls took up the cudgels quite needlessly in William's defence. "'He's a very brave boy to do all that,' she said indignantly, "'so don't you go saying things to him?' "'Well,' said William, flattered but modest. "'I didn't say I did it, did I? I said my uncle. Well, partly my uncle.' Mr. Percival Jones looked down at him in righteous wrath. "'You're a very wicked little boy. I'll tell your father—er, I'll tell your sister.' For Ethel was approaching in the distance, and Mr. Percival Jones was in no way loathe to converse with her. Mr. Percival Jones was a thin, pale, aesthetic, would-be poet who lived and thrived on the admiration of the elderly ladies of his boarding-house and had done so for the past ten years. Once he had published a volume of poems at his own expense. He lived at the same boarding-house as the Browns and had seen Ethel in the distance to meals. He had admired the red lights in her dark hair and the blue of her eyes, and had even gone so far as to wonder whether she possessed the solid and enduring qualities which he would require of one whom in his mind he referred to as his future spouse. He began to walk down the beach with her. "'I should like to speak to you, er, about your brother, Miss Brown,' he began. "'If you can spare me the time, of course. I trust I do not, er, intrude or presume. He is a charming little man, but, er, I fear not veracious. May I accompany you a little on your way? I am, er, much attracted to your, er, family. I, er, should like to know you all better. I am deeply attached to your, er, little brother, but grieved to find that he does not, er, adhere to the truth in his statements. I, er,' Miss Brown's blue eyes were dancing with merriment. "'Oh, don't you worry about William,' she said. "'He's awful. It's much best just to leave him alone. Isn't the sea gorgeous today?' They walked along the sands. Meanwhile William had invited his small defender into his hut. "'You can look round,' he said graciously. "'You've seen my skin, what I—he killed, haven't you? This is my gun. You put a cork in there, and it comes out hard when you shoot it. It would kill anyone, impressively, if you did it near enough to them and at the right place. And I've got a door-mouse, and a punch-ball, and a box of things, and a football, but they wouldn't let me bring them—bitterly.' "'It's a lovely skin,' said the little girl. "'What's your name?' "'William, what's yours?' "'Peggy!' "'Well, let's be on a desert island, shall we, and nothing to eat nor anything, shall we? Come on!' She nodded eagerly. "'How lovely!' They wandered out onto the promenade, and among a large crowd of passers-by bemoaned the lonely emptiness of the island and scanned the horizon for a sail. In the far distance on the cliffs could be seen the figures of Mr. Percival Jones and William's sister walking slowly away from the town. At last they turned towards the hut. "'We must find something to eat,' said William firmly. "'We can't let ourselves starve to death.' "'Shrimps suggested Peggy cheerfully. "'We haven't got nets,' said William. "'We couldn't save them from the wreck.' "'Perry-winkles?' "'There aren't any on this island. I know—seaweed, and we'll cook it.' "'Oh, how lovely!' He gathered up a handful of seaweed, and they entered the hut. Leaving a white handkerchief tied onto the door to attract the attention of any passing ship. The hut was provided with a gas ring, and William, disregarding his family's express injunction, lit this, and put on a saucepan filled with water and seaweed. "'We'll pretend it's a wood fire,' he said. "'We couldn't make a real wood fire out on the prom. They'd stop us, so we'll pretend this is, and we'll pretend we saved a saucepan from the wreck.' After a few minutes he took off the pan and drew out a long green strand. "'You eat it first,' he said politely. The smell of it was not pleasant. Peggy drew back. "'Oh, no—you first.' "'No, you!' said William nobly. "'You look hungrier than me.' She bit off a piece, chewed it, shut her eyes, and swallowed. "'Now you,' she said, with a shade of vindictiveness in her voice. "'You're not going to not have any.' William took a mouthful and shivered. "'I think it's gone bad,' he said critically. Peggy's rosy face had paled. "'I'm going home,' she said suddenly. "'You can't go home on a desert island,' said William severely. "'Well, I'm going to be rescued, then,' she said. "'I think I am, too,' said William.' It was lunchtime when William arrived at the boarding-house. Mr. Percival Jones had moved his place so as to be nearer Ethel. He was now convinced that she was possessed of every virtue his future spouse could need. He conversed brightly and incessantly during the meal. Mr. Brown grew restive. "'The man will drive me mad,' he said afterwards, bleeding away. "'What's he bleeding about, anyway? Can't you stop him bleeding, Ethel? You seem to have influence. Bleat, bleat, bleat. Good Lord, and me here for a rest cure.' At this point he was summoned to the telephone and returned distraught. "'It's an unknown female,' he said. She says that a boy of the name of William from this boarding-house has made her little girl sick by forcing her to eat seaweed. She says it's brutal. Does anyone know I'm here for a rest cure? Where is the boy? Good heavens! Where is the boy?' But William, like Peggy, had retired from the world for a space. He returned later on in the afternoon, looking pale and chastened. He bore the reproaches of his family in stately silence. Mr. Percival Jones was in great evidence in the drawing-room. "'And soon, soon the spring will be with us once more,' he was saying in his high-pitched voice, as he leaned back in his chair and joined the tips of his fingers together. "'The spring, ah, the spring, I have a little effort I composed on the coming of spring. I will read to you some time if you will, ah, be kind enough to, ah, criticize impartially.' "'Criticize,' they chorused. It will be above criticism. Oh, do read it to us, Mr. Jones.' "'I will, ah, this evening,' his eyes wandered to the door, hoping and longing for his beloved's entrance. But Ethel was with her father at a matinee at the winter gardens, and he looked and longed in vain. In spite of this, however, the springs of his eloquence did not run dry, and he held forth ceaselessly to his little circle of admirers. The simple, ah, pleasures of nature, how few of us, alas, have the gift of appreciating them rightly. This little seaside hamlet with its sea, its promenade, its winter gardens, how beautiful it is, how few appreciate it rightly. Here William entered, and Mr. Percival Jones broke off abruptly. He disliked William. "'Ah, here comes our little friend. He looks pale. Remorse, my young friend. Ah, beware of untruthfulness. Beware of the beginnings of a life of lies and deception.' He laid a hand on William's head, and cold shivers ran down William's spine. "'Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever,' as the poet says. There was murder in William's heart.' At that minute Ethel entered. "'No,' she snapped. I sat next a man who smelt of bad tobacco. I hate men who smoke bad tobacco.' Mr. Jones assumed an expression of intense piety. "'I may boast,' he said, sanctimoniously, that I have never thus soiled my lips with drink or smoke.' There was an approving murmur from the occupants of the drawing-room. William had met his father in the passage outside the drawing-room. Mr. Brown was wearing a hunted expression. "'Can I go into the drawing-room?' he said bitterly. Or is he bleating away in there?' They listened. From the drawing-room came the sound of a high-pitched voice. Mr. Brown groaned. "'Good Lord,' he moaned, and I'm here for a rest-cure, and he comes bleating into every room in the house. Is the smoking-room safe? Does he smoke?' Mr. Percival Jones was feeling slightly troubled in his usually peaceful conscience. He could honestly say that he had never smoked. He could honestly say that he had never drank. But in his bedroom reposed two bottles of brandy, purchased at the advice of an aunt in case of emergencies. In his bedroom also was a box of cigars that he had bought for a cousin's birthday gift, but which his conscience had finally forbidden to present. He decided to consign these two emblems of vice to the waves that very evening. Meanwhile William had returned to the hut and was composing a tale of smugglers by the light of a candle. He was much intrigued by his subject. He wrote fast in an illegible hand in great sloping lines, his brows frowning, his tongue protruding from his mouth as it always did in moments of mental strain. His sympathies wavered between the smugglers and the representatives of law and order. His orthography was the despair of his teachers. Ho! says Dick Savage. He wrote, Ho! Gad Zooks! Roll in the bottles of beer up the beach. Fill your pockets with the backie from the boat. Quick now, Gad Zooks! Me thinks we are observed! He glared round in the darkness. In less time than what it takes to write this he was surrounded by policemen and stood proud and defiant in the light of their electric torches what they had wiped quick as lightning from their bosoms. Surrender! cried one, holding a gun at his brain and a drawn sword at his heart. Surrender or die! Never! said Dick Savage, throwing back his head proud and defiant. Never! Due to me what you will, you dirty dogs, I will never surrender. Sooner will I die. One cruel brute hit him a blow on the lips and he sprang back, snarling with rage. In less time than what it takes to write this he had sprang at his torturer's throat and his teeth met in one mighty bite. His torturer dropped dead and lifeless at his feet. Ho! cried Dick Savage, throwing back his head proud and defiant again. So dies any of you what insults my proud manhood. I will meet my teeth in your throats. For a minute they stood trembling, then one bolder than the rest leapt forward and tied Dick Savage's hands with rope behind his back. Another took from his pockets bottles of beer and tobacco in large quantities. Ho! they cried exulting. Ho! Dick Savage the smuggler caught at last. Dick Savage gave one proud and defiant laugh and, bringing his tied hands over his head, he bit the rope with one mighty bite. Ho! ho! he cried, throwing back his proud head. Ho! ho! you dirty dogs! Then, draining to the dregs a large bottle of poison he had concealed in his bosom, he fell dead and lifeless at their feet. There was a timid knock at the door and William, scowling impatiently, rose to open it. What do you want? he said curtly. A little voice answered from the dusk. It's me, Peggy. I've come to see how you are, William. They don't know I've come. I was awful sick after that seaweed this morning, William. William looked at her with a superior frown. Go away, he said. I'm busy. What are you doing? she said, poking her little curly head into the doorway. I'm right in a tail. She clasped her hands. Oh, how lovely! Oh, William, do read it to me. I'd love it. Molified, he opened the door and she took her seat on his buckskin on the floor and William sat by the candle, clearing his throat for a minute before he began. During the reading she never took her eyes off him. At the end she drew a deep breath. Oh, William, it's beautiful. William, are there smugglers now? Oh, yes, millions, he said carelessly. Here? Of course there are. She went to the door and looked out at the dusk. I'd love to see one. What do they smuggle, William? He came and joined her at the door, walking with a slight swagger as became a man of literary fame. Oh, beer and cigars and things. Millions of them. A furtive figure was passing the door, casting suspicious glances to left and right. He held his coat tightly round him, clasping something inside it. I expect that's one, said William casually. They watched the figure out of sight. Suddenly William's eye is shown. Let's stalk him and catch him, he said excitedly. Come on, let's take some weapons. He seized his pop-gun from a corner. You take—he looked round the room. You take the waste-paper basket, put over his head and pin down his arms, and something to tie him up. I know, the skin eye he shot in Africa. You can tie its paws in front of him. Come on, let's catch him smuggling. He stepped out boldly into the dusk with his pop-gun, followed by the blindly obedient Peggy carrying the waste-paper basket in one hand and the skin in the other. Mr. Percival Jones was making quite a little ceremony of consigning his brandy and cigars to the waves. He had composed a little effort upon it, which began. Oh, deeps, receive these objects vile, which nevermore mine eyes shall soil. He went down to the edge of the sea and, taking a bottle in each hand, held them out at arm's length, while he began in his high-pitched voice. Oh, deeps, receive these! He stopped. A small boy stood beside him, holding out at him the point of what in the semi-darkness Mr. Jones took to be a loaded rifle. William mistook his action in holding out the bottles. It's no good trying to drink it up, he said severely. We've caught you smuggling. Mr. Percival Jones laughed nervously. My little man, he said, that's a very dangerous thing for you to have. Suppose you hand it over to me now like a good little chap. William recognized his voice. Fancy you being a smuggler all the time, he said with righteous indignation in his voice. Take away that nasty gun, little boy, pleaded his captive plaintively. You don't understand it. It might go off. William was not a boy to indulge in half-measures. He meant to carry the matter off with a high hand. I'll shoot you dead, he said dramatically, if you don't do just what I tell you. Mr. Percival Jones wiped the perspiration from his brow. Where did you get that rifle, little boy? He asked in a voice he strove to make playful. Is it loaded? It's unwise, little boy, most unwise. Give it to me to take care of. It might go off, you know. William moved the muzzle of his weapon, and Mr. Percival Jones shuddered from head to foot. William was a brave boy, but he had experienced a moment of cold terror when first he had approached his captive. The first note of the quavering high-pitched voice had, however, reassured him. He instantly knew himself to be the better man. His captive's obvious terror of his pop-gun almost persuaded him that he held in his hand some formidable death-dealing instrument. As a matter of fact, Mr. Percival Jones was temperamentally an abject coward. You walk up to the seats, commanded William. I've took you prisoner for smuggling, and—and—just walk up to the seats. Mr. Percival Jones obeyed with alacrity. Don't, er, press anything, little boy, he pleaded as he went. It, ah, might go off by accident. You might do, ah, untold damage. Peggy, armed with the waste-paper basket and the skin, followed open mouth. At the seat William paused. Peggy, you put the basket over his head and pin his arms down, case he struggles, and tie the skin what I shot round him, case he struggles. Peggy stood upon the seat and obeyed. Their victim made no protest. He seemed to himself to be in some horrible dream. The only thing of which he was conscious was the dimly described weapon that William held out at him in the darkness. He was hardly aware of the waste-paper basket thrust over his head. He watched William anxiously through the basket work. Be careful, he murmured. Be careful, boy! He hardly felt the skin, which was fastened tightly round his unresisting form by Peggy, the tail tied to one front paw. Unconsciously he still clasped a bottle of brandy in each arm. Then came the irate summons of Peggy's nurse through the dusk. Oh, William, she said, panting with excitement. I don't want to leave you. Oh, William, he might kill you. You go on. I'm all right, he said, with conscious valor. He can't do nothing, because I've got a gun and I can shoot him dead. Mr. Percival Jones shuddered afresh, and he's all tied up, and I've took him prisoner, and I'm going to take him home. Oh, William, you are brave, she whispered in the darkness, as she flitted away to her nurse. William blushed with pride and embarrassment. Mr. Percival Jones was convinced that he had to deal with a youthful lunatic, armed with a dangerous weapon, and was anxious only to humour him, till the time of danger was over and he could be placed under proper restraint. Unconscious of his peculiar appearance, he walked before his captor, casting propitiatory glances behind him. It's all right, little boy, he said, soothingly. Quite all right. I'm your friend. Don't get annoyed, little boy. Don't get annoyed. Won't you put your gun down, little man? Won't you let me carry it for you? William walked behind, still, pointing his pop-gun. I've took you prisoner for smuggling, he repeated doggedly. I'm taking you home. You're my prisoner. I've took you. They met no one on the road, though Mr. Percival Jones, through longing glances around, ready to appeal to any passerby for rescue. He was afraid to raise his voice in case it should rouse his youthful captor to murder. He saw with joy the gate of his boarding-house and hastened up the walk and up the stairs. The drawing-room door was open. There was help and assistance. There was protection against this strange persecution. He entered, followed closely by William. It was about the time he had promised to read his little effort on the coming of spring to his circle of admirers. A group of elderly ladies sat round the fire, awaiting him. Ethel was writing. They turned as he entered, and a gasp of horror and incredulous dismay went up. It was that gasp that called him to a realization of the fact that he was wearing a waste-paper basket over his head and shoulders, and that a mangy fur rug was tied round his arms. Mr. Jones! they gasped. He gave a wrench to his shoulders, and the rug fell to the floor, revealing a bottle of brandy clasped in either arm. Mr. Jones! they repeated. I caught him smuggling, said William proudly. I caught him smuggling beer by the sea, and he was drinking those two bottles he'd smuggled, and he had thousands and thousands of cigars all over him, and I caught him, and he's a smuggler, and I brought him up here with my gun. He's a smuggler, and I took him prisoner. Mr. Jones, red and angry, his hair awry, glared through the wicker work of his basket. He moistened his lips. This is an outrage, he spluttered. Horrified elderly eyes stared at the incriminating bottles. He was drinking them by the sea, said William. Mr. Jones! they chorused again. He flung off his waste-paper basket, and turned upon the proprietus of the establishment who stood by the door. I will not brook such treatment, he stammered in fury. I leave your roof to-night. I am outraged, humiliated. I disdain to explain. I leave your roof to-night. Mr. Jones! they said once more. Mr. Jones! still clasping his bottles, withdrew, pausing to glare at William on his way. You wicked boy! you wicked little untruthful boy, he said. William looked after him. He's my prisoner, and they've let him go, he said, aggrievedly. Ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking-room. Mr. Brown sat miserably in a chair by a dying fire, beneath a poor light. Is he still bleeding there? he said. Is this still the only corner where I can be sure of keeping my sanity? Is he reading his beastly poetry upstairs? Is he— He's going, said William Moodley. He's going before dinner. They've sent for his cab. He's mad, because I said he was a smuggler. He was a smuggler, because I saw him doing it, and I took him prisoner, and he got mad, and he's going. And they're mad at me, because I took him prisoner. You'd think they'd be glad at me, catchin' smugglers, but they're not. Bitterly. And Mother says she'll tell you, and you'll be mad, too, and— Mr. Brown raised his hand. One minute, my son, he said. Your story is confused. Do I understand that Mr. Jones is going, and that you are the cause of his departure? Yes, because he got mad, because I said he was a smuggler, and he was a smuggler, and they're mad at me now, and— Mr. Brown laid a hand on his son's shoulder. There are moments, William, he said, when I feel almost affectionate towards you. End of Chapter 11. Read on September 14, 2007, in Oceanside, California. More William. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, this reading by Kara Schellenberg. To William the idea of reform was new and startling, and not wholly unattractive. It originated with the housemaid, whose brother was a reformed burglar, now employed in a grocer's shop. Ease got conversion, she said to William. Ease got it quite sudden like, and he give up all his bad ways straight off. Ease been like a heavenly saint ever since. William was deeply interested. The point was all innocently driven in later by the Sunday School mistress. William's family had no real faith in the Sunday School, as a corrective to William's inherent wickedness, but they knew that no Sabbath peace or calm was humanly possible while William was in the house. So they brushed and cleaned and tidied him, at 2.45, and sent him, pained and protesting, down the road every Sunday afternoon. Their only regret was that Sunday School did not begin earlier and end later. Fortunately for William, most of his friend's parents were inspired by the same zeal, so that he met his old cronies of the weekdays, Henry, Ginger, Douglas, and all the rest, and together they beguiled the monotony of the Sabbath. But this Sunday, the tall, pale lady who, for her sins, essayed to lead William and his friends along the straight and narrow path of virtue, was almost inspired. She was like some prophetess of old. She was so emphatic that the red cherries that hung coquettishly over the edge of her hat rattled against it, as though in applause. We must all start afresh, she said. We must all be turned. That's what conversion means. William's fascinated eye wandered from the cherries to the distant view out of the window. He thought suddenly of the noble burglar who had turned his back upon the mysterious nefarious tools of his trade, and now dispensed margarine to his former victims. Opposite him sat a small girl in a pink and white-checked frock. He often wild away the dullest hours of Sunday school by putting out his tongue at her, or throwing paper pellets at her—manufactured previously for the purpose. But today, meeting her serious eye, he looked away hastily. And we must all help someone, went on the urgent voice. If we have turned ourselves, we must help someone else to turn. Determined and eager was the eye that the small girl turned upon William, and William realized that his time had come. He was to be converted. He felt almost thrilled by the prospect. He was so enthralled that he received absentmindedly and without gratitude the mountainous bull's eye passed to him from ginger, and only gave a half-hearted smile when a well-aimed pellet from Henry's hand sent one of the prophetess's cherries swinging high in the air. After the class the pink-cheeked girl, whose name most appropriately was Deborah, stalked William for several yards and finally cornered him. William, she said, are you going to turn? I'm going to think about it, said William, guardedly. William, I think you ought to turn. I'll help you, she added sweetly. William drew a deep breath. All right, I will, he said. She heaved a sigh of relief. You'll begin now, won't you? she said earnestly. William considered. There were several things that he had wanted to do for some time, but hadn't managed to do yet. He had not tried turning off the water at the main and hiding the key and seeing what would happen. He hadn't tried shutting up the cat in the hen-house. He hadn't tried painting his long suffering mongrel jumble with the pot of green paint that was in the tool shed. He hadn't tried pouring water into the receiver of the telephone. He hadn't tried locking the cook into the larder. There were, in short, whole fields of crime entirely unexplored. All these things, and others, must be done before the Reformation. I can't begin just yet, said William, say, day after tomorrow. She considered this for a minute. Very well, she said at last reluctantly. Day after tomorrow. The next day dawned bright and fair. William arose with a distinct sense that something important had happened. Then he thought of the Reformation. He saw himself leading a quiet and blameless life, walking sedately to school, working at high pressure in school, doing his homework conscientiously in the evening, being exquisitely polite to his family, his instructors, and the various foolish people who visited his home for the sole purpose, apparently, of making inane remarks to him. He saw all this, and the picture was far from unattractive, in the distance. In the immediate future, however, there were various quite important things to be done. There was a whole normal lifetime of crime to be crowded into one day. Looking out of his window he aspired the gardener bending over one of the beds. The gardener had a perfectly bald head. William had sometimes idly imagined the impact of a pea sent violently from a pea-shooter with the gardener's bald head. Before there had been a lifetime of experiment before him, and he had put off this one idly in favour of something more pressing. Now there was only one day. He took up his pea-shooter and aimed carefully. The pea did not embed itself deeply into the gardener's skull as William had sometimes thought it would. It bounced back. It bounced back quite hard. The gardener also bounced back with a yell of anger, shaking his fist at William's window. But William had discreetly retired. He hid the pea-shooter, assumed his famous expression of innocence, and felt distinctly cheered. The question as to what exactly would happen when the pea met the baldness was now forever solved. The gardener retired grumbling to the potting shed, so for the present all was well. Later in the day the gardener might lay his formal complaint before authority, but later in the day was later in the day. It did not trouble William. He dressed briskly and went down to breakfast with a frown of concentration upon his face. It was the last day of his old life. No one else was in the dining-room. It was the work of a few minutes to remove the bacon from beneath the big pewter cover and substitute the kitten, to put a tablespoon full of salt into the coffee, and to put a two days old paper in place of that morning's. They were all things that he had at one time or another vaguely thought of doing, but for which he had never yet seemed to have time or opportunity. Warming to his subject he removed the egg from under the egg-cozy on his sister's plate and placed in its stead a worm which had just appeared in the window-box in readiness for the early bird. He surveyed the scene with a deep sigh of satisfaction. The only drawback was that he felt that he could not safely stay to watch results. William possessed a true strategic instinct for the right moment for a retreat. Hearing, therefore, a heavy step on the stairs, he seized several pieces of toast and fled. As he fled he heard through the open window violent sounds proceeding from the enraged kitten beneath the cover, and then the still more violent sounds proceeding from the unknown person who removed the cover. The kitten, a mass of fury and lust for revenge, came flying through the window. William hid behind a laurel bush till it had passed, then set off down the road. School, of course, was impossible. The precious hours of such a day as this could not be wasted in school. He went down the road full of his noble purpose. The wickedness of a lifetime was somehow or other to be crowded into this day. Tomorrow it would all be impossible. Tomorrow began the blameless life. It must all be worked off to-day. He skirted the school by a field-path in case any of those narrow souls paid to employ so aimlessly the precious hours of his youth might be there. They would certainly be tactless enough to question him as he passed the door. Then he joined the main road. The main road was empty except for a caravan. A caravan gaily painted in red and yellow. It had little lace curtains at the window. It was altogether a most fascinating caravan. No one seemed to be near it. William looked through the windows. There was a kind of dresser with crockery hanging from it, a small table, and a little oil stove. The further part was curtained off but no sound came from it, so that it was presumably empty too. William wandered round to inspect the quadruped in front. It appeared to be a mule, a mule with a jaundiced view of life. It rolled a sad eye towards William. Then, with a deep sigh, returned to its contemplation of the landscape. William gazed upon caravan and steed, fascinated. Never in his future life of noble merit would he be able to annex a caravan. It was his last chance. No one was about. He could pretend that he had mistaken it for his own caravan, or had got onto it by mistake, or—or anything. Conscience stirred faintly in his breast, but he silenced it sternly. Conscience was to rule him for the rest of his life, and it could jolly well let him alone this day. With some difficulty he climbed onto the driver's seat, took the reins, said, gear to the melancholy mule, and the whole equipage with a jolt and faint rattle set out along the road. William did not know how to drive, but it did not seem to matter. The mule ambled along, and William, high up on the driver's seat, the reins held with ostentatious carelessness in one hand, the whip poised lightly in the other, was in the seventh heaven of bliss. He was driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan. The very telegraph posts seemed to gape with envy and admiration as he passed. What ultimately he was going to do with his caravan he neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was, it was a bright sunny morning, and all the others were in school, and he was driving a red and yellow caravan along the high road. The birds seemed to be singing a pan of praise to him. He was intoxicated with pride. It was his caravan, his road, his world. Carelessly he flicked the mule with the whip. There are several explanations of what happened then. The mule may not have been used to the whip. A wasp may have just stung him at that particular minute. A wandering demon may have entered into him. Mules are notoriously accessible to wandering demons. Whatever the explanation, the mule suddenly started forward and galloped at full speed down the hill. The reins dropped from William's hands. He clung for dear life onto his seat, as the caravan, swaying and jolting along the uneven road, seemed to be doing its utmost to fling him off. There came a rattle of crockery from within. Then suddenly there came another sound from within. A loud agonised scream. It was a female scream. Someone, who had been asleep behind the curtain, had just awakened. William's hair stood on end. He almost forgot to cling to the seat. For not one scream came, but many. They rent the still summer air, mingled with the sound of breaking glass and crockery. The mule continued his mad career down the hill, his reins trailing in the dust. In the distance was a little gypsy's donkey cart full of pots and pans. William found his voice suddenly and began to warn the mule. Look out, you old softie! he yelled. Look out for the donk, you old ass! But the mule refused to be warned. He neatly escaped the donkey cart himself, but he crashed the caravan into it with such force that the caravan broke a shaft and overturned completely onto the donkey cart, scattering pots and pans far and wide. From within the caravan came inhuman female yells of fear and anger. William had fallen on to a soft bank of grass. He was discovering, to his amazement, that he was still alive and practically unhurt. The mule was standing meekly by and smiling to himself. Then out of the window of the caravan climbed a woman, a fat, angry woman, shaking her fist at the world in general. Her hair and face were covered with sugar, and a fork was embedded in the front of her dress. Otherwise she, too, had escaped undamaged. The owner of the donkey cart arose from the melee of pots and pans and turned upon her fiercely. She screamed at him furiously in reply. Then along the road could be seen the figure of a fat man carrying a fishing rod. He began to run wildly towards the caravan. Ah! Gotten himmel! he cried as he ran. My beautiful caravan! Who has this to it done? He joined the frenzied altercation that was going on between the donkey man and the fat woman. The air was rent by their angry shouts. A group of highly appreciative villagers collected round them. Then one of them pointed to William, who sat, feeling still slightly shaken upon the bank. It was him what done it, he said. It was him that was a driving of it down the hill. With one wild glance at the scene of devastation and anger, William turned and fled through the wood. Ah! Gotten himmel! screamed the fat man, beginning to pursue him. The fat woman and the donkey man joined the pursuit. To William it was like some ghastly nightmare after an evening's entertainment at the cinematograph. Meanwhile the donkey and the mule fraternized over the debris, and the villagers helped themselves to all they could find. But the fat man was very fat, and the fat woman was very fat, and the donkey man was very old, and William was young and very fleet. So in less than ten minutes they gave up the pursuit and returned panting and quarreling to the road. William sat on the further outskirts of the wood and panted. He felt on the whole exhilarated by the adventure. It was quite a suitable adventure for his last day of unregeneration. But he felt also in need of bodily sustenance, so he purchased a bun and a bottle of lemonade at a neighbouring shop, and sat by the roadside to recover. There were no signs of his pursuers. He felt reluctant to return home. It is always well to follow a morning's absence from school by an afternoon's absence from school. A return in the afternoon is ignominious and humiliating. William wandered round the neighbourhood, experiencing all the thrill of the outlaw. Certainly by this time the gardener would have complained to his father, probably the schoolmistress would have sent a note. Also, someone had been scratched by the cat. William decided that, all things considered, it was best to make a day of it. He spent part of the afternoon in throwing stones at a scarecrow. His aim was fairly good, and he succeeded in knocking off the hat and finally prostrating the wooden framework. Followed an exciting chase by an angry farmer. It was after tea time when he returned home, walking with Carolus Bravado as of a criminal who has drunk of crime to its very depth and flaunts it before the world. His spirit sank a little as he approached the gate. He could see through the trees the fat caravan owner gesticulating at the door. Helped by the villagers, he had tracked William. Phrases floated to him through the summer air. Mine beautiful caravan, ah cotton himmel! He could see the gardener smiling in the distance. There was a small blue bruise on his shining head. William judged from the smile that he had laid his formal complaint before authority. William noticed that his father looked pale and harassed. He noticed also, with a thrill of horror, that his hand was bound up and that there was a long scratch down his cheek. He knew the cat had scratched somebody but crumbs. A small boy came down the road and saw William hesitating at the open gateway. You'll catch it, he said cheerfully. They've wrote to say you wasn't in school. William crept round to the back of the house beneath the bushes. He felt that the time had come to give himself up to justice, but he wanted, as the popular saying is, to be sure of getting his money's worth. There was the tin half full of green paint in the tool shed. He'd had his eye on it for some time. He went quietly round to the tool shed. Soon he was contemplating with a satisfied smile a green and enraged cat and a green and enraged hen. Then, bracing himself for the effort, he delivered himself up to justice. When all was said and done, no punishment could be really adequate to a day like that. Dusk was falling. William gazed pensively from his bedroom window. He was reviewing his day. He had almost forgotten the stormy and decidedly unpleasant scene with his father. Mr. Brown's rhetoric had been rather lost on William, because its pearls of sarcasm had been so far above his head. And William had not been really loath to retire at once to bed. After all, it had been a very tiring day. Now his thoughts were going over some of its most exquisite moments, the moments when the pea and the gardener's head met and rebounded with such satisfactory force. The moment when he swung along the high road, monarch of a caravan and a mule and the whole wide world, the moment when the scarecrow hunched up and collapsed so realistically, the cat covered with green paint. After all, it was his last day. He saw himself from to-morrow onward, leading a quiet and blameless life, walking sedately to school, working at high pressure in school, doing his homework conscientiously in the evening, being exquisitely polite to his family and instructors. And the vision failed utterly to attract. Moreover, he hadn't yet tried turning off the water at the main or locking the cook into the larder or—or hundreds of things. There came a gentle voice from the garden. William, where are you? William looked down and met the earnest gaze of Deborah. Hello, he said. William, she said. You won't forget that you're going to start to-morrow, will you? William looked at her firmly. I can't just to-morrow, he said. I'm putting it off. I'm putting it off for a year or two. End of Chapter 12 Read on September 20th, 2007, in Oceanside, California. More William, Chapter 13 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, this reading by Kara Schellenberg. More William, by Rich Malkrompton, Chapter 13 William and the Ancient Souls The house next Williams had been unoccupied for several months, and William made full use of its garden. Its garden was, in turns, a jungle, a desert, an ocean, and an enchanted island. William invited select parties of his friends to it. He had come to look upon it as his own property. He hunted wild animals in it with jumble, his trusty hound. He tracked red Indians in it, again with jumble, his trusty hound, and he attacked and sank ships in it, making his victims walk the plank, again with the help and assistance of jumble, his trusty hound. Sometimes, to vary the monotony, he made jumble, his trusty hound, walk the plank into the rain-tub. This was one of the many unpleasant things that William brought into jumble's life. It was only his intense love for William that reconciled him to his existence. Jumble was one of the very few beings who appreciated William. The house on the other side was a much smaller one, and was occupied by Mr. Gregorius Lampkin. Mr. Gregorius Lampkin was a very shy and rather elderly bachelor. He issued from his front door every morning at half past eight, holding a neat little attaché case in a neatly gloved hand. He spent the day in an insurance office and returned, still unruffled and immaculate, at about half past six. Most people considered him quite dull and negligible, but he possessed the supreme virtue in William's eyes of not objecting to William. William had suffered much from unsympathetic neighbors who had taken upon themselves to object to such innocent and artistic objects as catapults and pea-shooters and cricket-balls. William had a very soft spot in his heart for Mr. Gregorius Lampkin. William spent a good deal of his time in Mr. Lampkin's garden during his absence, and Mr. Lampkin seemed to have no objection. Other people's gardens always seemed to William to be more attractive than his own, especially when he had no right of entry into them. There was quite an excitement in the neighborhood when the empty house was let. It was rumored that the newcomer was a personage. She was the president of the Society of Ancient Souls. The Society of Ancient Souls was a society of people who remembered their previous existence. The memory usually comes in a flash. For instance, you might remember in a flash, when you were looking at a box of matches, that you had been Guy Fawkes. Or you might look at a cow and remember in a flash that you had been Nebuchadnezzar. Then you joined the Society of Ancient Souls and paid a large subscription, and attended meetings at the house of its president in costume. And the president was coming to live next door to William. By a curious coincidence her name was Gregoria, Miss Gregoria Mush. William awaited her coming with anxiety. He had discovered that one's next door neighbors make a great difference to one's life. They may be agreeable, and not object to mouth organs and whistling and occasional stone-throwing, or they may not. They sometimes, the worst kind, go to the length of writing notes to one's father about one, and then, of course, the only course left to one is one of revenge. But William hoped great things from Miss Gregoria Mush. There was a friendly sound about the name. On the evening of her arrival he climbed up on the roller and gazed wistfully over the fence at the territory that had once been his, but from which he was now debarred. He felt like Moses, surveying the Promised Land. Miss Gregoria Mush was walking in the garden. William watched her with baited breath. She was very long and very thin and very angular, and she was reading poetry out loud to herself as she trailed about in her long draperies. Oh, moon of my delight! she declaimed. Then her eye met Williams. The eyes beneath her pence-nay were like little gimlets. How dare you stare at me, you rude boy! she said. William gasped. I shall write to your father, she said fiercely, and then proceeded still ferociously. That knows no wane. Crumbs murmured William, descending slowly from his perch. She did write to his father, and that note was the first of many. She objected to his singing, she objected to his shouting, she objected to his watching her over the wall, and she objected to his throwing sticks at her cat. She objected both verbally and in writing. This persecution was only partly compensated for by occasional glimpses of meetings of the ancient souls. For the ancient souls met in costume, and sometimes William could squeeze through the hole in the fence and watch the ancient souls meeting in the dining-room. Miss Gregoria Mush arrayed as Mary, Queen of Scots. One of her many previous existences was worth watching, and always there was the garden on the other side. Mr. Gregorius Lamkin made no objections and wrote no notes. But clouds of fate were gathering round Mr. Gregorius Lamkin. William heard of it one day at lunch. I saw the old Looney talking to poor little Lamkin today, said Robert, William's elder brother. In these terms did Robert refer to the August President of the Society of Ancient Souls. And the next news Robert brought home was that poor little Lamkin had joined the Society of Ancient Souls, but didn't seem to want to talk about it. He seemed very vague as to his previous existence, but he said that Miss Gregoria Mush was sure that he had been Julius Caesar. The knowledge had come to her in a flash when he raised his hat, and she saw his bald head. There was a meeting of the Ancient Souls that evening, and William crept through the hall and up to the dining-room window to watch. A gorgeous scene met his eye. Noah conversed agreeably with Cleopatra in the window-seat, and by the piano Napoleon discussed the Irish question with Lobangula. As William watched his small nose flattened against a corner of the window, Nero and Dante arrived, having shared a taxi from the station. Miss Gregoria Mush, tall and gaunt and angular, presided in the robes of Mary, Queen of Scots, which was her favourite previous existence. Then Mr. Gregorius Lamkin arrived. He looked as unhappy as it is possible for a man to look. He was dressed in a toga and a laurel wreath. Heat and nervousness had caused his small waxed mustache to droop. His toga was too long, and his laurel wreath was crooked. Miss Gregoria Mush received him effusively. She carried him off to a corner seat near the window, and there they conversed, or to be more accurate. She talked, and he listened. The window was open, and William could hear some of the things she said. Now you are a member. You must come here often. You and I, the only Ancient Souls in this vicinity, we will work together and live only in the past. Have you remembered any other previous existence? No? Ah, try! It will come in a flash any time. I must come and see your garden. I feel that we have much in common, you and I. We have much to talk about. I have all my past life to tell you of. What train do you come home by? We must be friends, real friends. I am sure I can help you much in your life as an Ancient Soul. Our names are almost the same. Fate, in some way, unites us. And Mr. Lamkin sat, miserable and dejected, and yet with a certain pathetic resignation. For what can one do against Fate? Then the President caught sight of William and approached the window. Go away, boy, she called. You wicked, rude, prying boy, go away! Mr. Lamkin shot a wretched and apologetic glance at William, but William pressed his mouth to the open slit of the window. All right, Mrs. Jarlies, he called. Then turned and fled. William met Mr. Lamkin on his way to the station the next morning. Mr. Lamkin looked thinner, and there were lines of worry on his face. I'm sorry she sent you away, William, he said. It must have been interesting to watch—most interesting to watch. I'd much rather have watched than—but there. It's very kind of her to take such an interest in me. Most kind, but I—however, she's very kind, very kind. She very kindly presented me with the costume. Hardly suitable, perhaps, but very kind of her. And of course, there may be something in it, one never knows. I may have been Julius Caesar, but I hardly think. However, one must keep an open mind. Do you know any Latin, William? Just a bit, said William, guardedly. I've learnt a lot, but I don't know much. Say some to me. It might convey something to me. One never knows. She seems so sure. Talk Latin to me, William. Hick, Hague, Hawk, said William obligingly. Julius Caesar's reincarnation shook his head. No, he said. I'm afraid it doesn't seem to mean anything to me. Hunk, honk, hawk, went on William monotonously. I'm afraid it's no good, said Mr. Lambkin. I'm afraid it proves that I'm not. Still, one may not retain a knowledge of one's former tongue. One must keep an open mind. Of course, I'd prefer not to, but one must be fair. And she's kind, very kind. Shaking his head sadly, the little man entered the station. That evening William heard his father say to his mother— She came down to meet him at the station tonight. I'm afraid his doom is sealed. He's no power of resistance, and she's got her eye on him. Who's got her eye on him? said William with interest. Be quiet, said his father, with the brusqueness of the male parent. But William began to see how things stood, and William liked Mr. Lambkin. One evening he saw from his window Mr. Gregorius Lambkin walking with Miss Gregoria Mush in Miss Gregoria Mush's garden. Mr. Gregorius Lambkin did not look happy. William crept down to the hall in the fence and applied his ear to it. They were sitting on a seat quite close to his hall. Gregorius, the president of the Society of Ancient Souls, was saying, When I found that our names were the same, I knew that our destinies were interwoven. Yes, murmured Mr. Lambkin. It's so kind of you, so kind, but I'm afraid I'm overstaying my welcome. I must— No, I must say what is in my heart, Gregorius. You live on the past, I live in the past. We have a common mission—the mission of bringing to the thoughtless and uninitiated the memory of their former lives. Gregorius, our work would be more valuable if we could do it together, if the common destiny that has united our nomenclatures could unite also our lives. It's so kind of you, murmured the writhing victim. So kind, I am so unfit, I— No, friend, she said kindly, I have power enough for both. The human speech is so poor and agent, is it not? A doorbell clanged in the house. Ah, the committee of the Ancient Souls! They were coming from town tonight. Come here to-morrow night at the same time, Gregorius, and I will tell you what is in my heart. Meet me here, at this time, to-morrow evening. William here caught sight of a stray cat at the other end of the garden. In the character of a cannibal chief he hunted the white man—otherwise the cat— with blood-curdling war-whoops, but felt no real interest in the chase. He bound up his scratches mechanically with an ink-stained handkerchief. Then he went indoors. Robert was conversing with his friend in the library. Well, said the friend, it's nearly next month. Has she landed him yet? By Jove, said Robert, first of April to-morrow. He looked at William suspiciously. And if you try any fool's tricks on me, you'll jolly well hear about it. I'm not thinking of you, said William crushingly. I'm not going to trouble with you. Has she landed him, said the friend? Not yet, and I heard him saying in the train that he was leaving town on the second, and going abroad for a holiday. Well, she'll probably do it yet. She's got all the first. It's bedtime, William, called his mother. Thank Heaven, said Robert. William sat gazing into the distance, not seeing or hearing. William, called his mother. All right, said William irritably. I'm just thinking something out. William's family went about their ways cautiously the next morning. They watched William carefully. Robert even refused an egg at breakfast, because you never knew with that little wretch. But nothing happened. Fancy you're going on April Fool's Day without making a fool of anyone, said Robert at lunch. It's not over, is it? Not yet, said William, with the air of a sphinx. But it doesn't count after twelve, said Robert. William considered deeply before he spoke, then he said slowly. The thing what I'm going to do counts whatever time it is. Reluctantly, but as if drawn by a magnet, Mr. Lambkin set off to the President's house. William was in the road. She told me to tell you, said William unblushingly, that she was busy tonight and would you mind not coming? The tense lines of Mr. Lambkin's face relaxed. Oh, William, he said. It's a great relief. I'm going away early to-morrow, but I was afraid that to-night— he was almost hysterical with relief. She's so kind, but I was afraid that— well, well, I can't say I'm sorry. I'd promised to come, and I couldn't break it. But I was afraid, and I hear she's sold her house, and is leaving in a month, so— but she's very kind, very kind. He turned back with alacrity. Thanks for letting me have the clothes, said William. Oh, quite welcome, William. They're nice things for a boy to dress up in, no doubt. I can't say I, but she's very kind. Don't let her see you playing with them, William. William grunted, and returned to his back garden. For some time silence reigned over the three back gardens. Then Miss Gregorium Mosh emerged and came towards the seat by the fence. A figure was already seated there in the half-dusk. A figure swaved in a toga, with the toga drawn also over its drooping head. Gregorius, said the President, how dear of you to come in costume! The figure made no movement. You know what I have in my heart, Gregorius. Still no answer. Your heart is too full for words, she said kindly. The thought of having your destiny linked with mine takes speech from you. But have courage, dear Gregorius. You shall work for me. We will do great things together. We will be married at the little church. Still no answer. Gregorius, she murmured tenderly. She leaned against him suddenly, and he yielded beneath the pressure with a sudden sound of dissolution. Two cushions slid to the ground. The toga fell back, revealing a broomstick with a turnip fixed firmly to the top. It bore the legend April Fool. And from the other side of the fence came a deep sigh of satisfaction, from the artist behind the scenes. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Kara Schellenberg. More William by Rich Moncrompton. Chapter 14 William's Christmas Eve It was Christmas. The air was full of excitement and secrecy. William, whose old-time faith in notes to Father Christmas sent up the chimney, had died a natural death as the result of bitter experience, had thoughtfully presented each of his friends and relations with a list of his immediate requirements. Things I want for Christmas. One, a bicycle. Two, a gramophone. Three, a pony. Four, a snake. Five, a monkey. Six, a bugle. Seven, a trumpet. Eight, a red engine uniform. Nine, a lot of sweets. Ten, a lot of books. He had a vague and not unfounded misgiving that his family would begin at the bottom of the list instead of the top. He was not surprised, therefore, when he saw his father come home rather later than usual, carrying a parcel of books under his arm. A few days afterwards, he announced casually at breakfast. Well, I only hope no one gives me the great chief or the pirate ship or the land of danger for Christmas. His father started. Why, he said sharply. Just because I've read him, that's all, explained William, with a bland look of innocence. The glance that Mr. Brown threw at his offspring was not altogether devoid of suspicion, but he said nothing. He set off after breakfast, with the same parcel of books under his arm, and returned with another. This time, however, he did not put them in the library cupboard, and William searched in vain. The question of Christmas festivities loomed large upon the social horizon. Robert and Ethel can have their party on the day before Christmas Eve, decided Mrs. Brown, and then William can have his on Christmas Eve. William surveyed his elder brother and sister gloomily. Yes, and us, eat up just what they've left, he said with bitterness. I know. Mrs. Brown changed the subject hastily. Now, let's see whom we'll have for your party, William, she said, taking out pencil and paper. You say whom you'd like, and I'll make a list. Ginger and Douglas and Henry and Joan, said William promptly. Yes, who else? I'd like the milkman. You can't have him. I'll have him. You can't have the milkman, William. Don't be so foolish. Well, I'd like to have Fisty Green. He can whistle with his fingers in his mouth. He's a butcher's boy, William. You can't have him. Well, who can I have? Johnny Brent? I don't like him. But you must invite him. He asked you to his. Well, I didn't want to go, irritably. You made me. But if he asks you to his, you must ask him back. You don't want me to invite folks I don't want, William said in the voice of one goaded against his will into exasperation. You must invite people who invite you, said Mrs. Brown firmly. That's what we always do in parties. Then they've got to invite you again, and it goes on and on and on, argued William. Where's the sense of it? I don't like Johnny Brent, and he don't like me. And if we go on inviting each other, and our mothers go on making us go, it'll go on and on and on. Where's the sense of it? I only just want to know where's the sense of it? His logic was unanswerable. Well, anyway, William, I'll draw up the list. You can go and play. William walked away frowning with his hands in his pockets. Where's the sense of it? He muttered as he went. He began to wind his way towards the spot, where he and Douglas and Ginger and Henry met daily in order to wile away the hours of the Christmas holidays. At present they lived and moved and had their being in the characters of Indian chiefs. As William walked down the back street, which led by a shortcut to their meeting place, he unconsciously assumed an arrogant strut, suggestive of some warrior prince surrounded by his gallant braves. Garn swank. He turned with a dark scowl. On a doorstep sat a little girl gazing up at him with blue eyes beneath a tousled mop of auburn hair. William's eye travelled sternly from her Titian curls to her bare feet. He assumed a threatening attitude and scowled fiercely. You better not say that again, he said darkly. Why not, she said with a jeering laugh? Well, you just better not, he said, with a still more ferocious scowl. What'd you do? she persisted. He considered for a moment in silence. Then you'd see what I'd do, he said ominously. Garn swank, she repeated. Now do it, go on, do it. I'll let you off this time, he said judicially. Garn, softy, you can't do anything you can't, you're a softy. I could cut your head off and scalp you and leave you hanging on a tree I could, he said fiercely. And I will, too, if you go on calling me names. Softy swank, now cut it off, go on. He looked down at her mucking blue eyes. You're jolly lucky I don't start on you, he said threateningly. Folks I do start on soon, get sorry I can tell you. What do you do to them? He changed the subject abruptly. What's your name, he said. Sheila, what's yours? Red hand, I mean, William. I'll tell you something if you'll come and sit down by me. What'll you tell me? Something I bet you don't know. I bet I do. Well, come here and I'll tell you. He advanced towards her suspiciously. Through the open door he could see a bed in a corner of the dark, dirty room and a woman's white face upon the pillow. Oh, come on, said the little girl impatiently. He came on and sat down beside her. Well, he said condescendingly, I bet I knew all the time. No, you didn't. Do you know? She sank her voice to a confidential whisper. There's a chap called Father Christmas, what comes down chimneys Christmas Eve and leaves presents in people's houses. He gave a scornful laugh. Oh, that rot, you don't believe that rot, do you? Rot, she repeated indignantly. Why, it's true, true as true. A boy told me what he had hanged his stocking up by the chimney and in the morning it was full of things and they was just the things he'd wrote on a bit of paper and thrown up the chimney to this year's Christmas chap. Only kids believe that, rot, persisted William. I left off believing it years and years ago. Her face grew pink with the effort of convincing him. But the boy told me the boy what got things. From this year chap what comes down chimneys and I've wrote what I want and sent it up the chimney. Don't you think I'll get it? William looked down at her. Her blue eyes, big with apprehension, were fixed on him. Her little rosy lips were parted. William's heart softened. I don't know, he said doubtfully. You might, I suppose. What do you want for Christmas? You won't tell if I tell you. No. Not to know one? No. Say, cross me throat. William complied with much interest and stored up the phrase for future use. Well, she sank her voice very low and spoke into his ear. Dad's coming out Christmas Eve. She leaned back and watched him, anxious to see the effect of this stupendous piece of news. Her face expressed pride and delight. William's merely bewilderment. Coming out, he repeated. Coming out of where? Her expression changed to one of scorn. Prison, of course. Silly. William was half offended, half thrilled. Well, I couldn't know it was prison, could I? How could I know it was prison without being told? It might have been out of anything. What? In hushed curiosity and awe. What was he in prison for? Stealing? Her pride was unmistakable. William looked at her in disapproval. Stealing's wicked, he said virtuously. Huh, she jeered. You can't steal. You're too soft, softy. You can't steal without being copped. First go, you can't. I could, he said indignantly. And anyway, he got copped, didn't he? Or he'd not have been in prison, so there. He didn't get copped, first go. It was just a sort of mistake, he said. He said it won't happen again. He's a jolly good stealer. The cop said he was, and they ought to know. Well, said William, changing the conversation. What do you want for Christmas? I wrote it on a bit of paper and sent it up the chimney, she said confidingly. I said I didn't want no toys, nor sweeties, nor nothing. I said I only wanted a nice supper for dad when he comes out Christmas Eve. We ain't got much money, me and mother, and we can't get him much of a spread. But if this year Christmas chap sends one for him, it'll be fine. Her eyes were dreamy with ecstasy. William stirred uneasily on his seat. I told you it was raw, he said. There isn't any father Christmas. It's just an old tale folks tell you when you're a kid, and you find out it's not true. He won't send no supper just because he isn't anything. He's just nothing, just an old tale. Oh, shut up! William turned sharply at the sound of the shrill voice from the bed within the room. Let the kid have a bit of pleasure looking forward to it, can't you? It's little enough she has anyway. William arose with dignity. All right, he said. Good-bye. He strolled away down the street. Softy. It was a malicious, sweet little voice. Swank. William flushed but forbore to turn around. That evening he met the little girl from next door in the road outside her house. Hello, Joan. Hello, William. In those blue eyes there was no malice or mockery. To Joan William was a god-like hero. His very wickedness partook of the divine. Would you—would you like to come and make a snowman in our garden, William? She said tentatively. William knit his brows. I don't know, he said ungraciously. I was just kind of thinking. She looked at him silently, hoping that he would deign to tell her his thoughts, but not daring to ask. Joan held no modern views on the subject of the equality of the sexes. Do you remember that old tale about Father Christmas, Joan? He said at last. She nodded. Well, suppose you wanted something very bad, and you believed that old tale, and sent a bit of paper up the chimney about what you wanted very bad, and then you never got it. You'd feel kind of rotten, wouldn't you? She nodded again. I did one time, she said. I sent a lovely list up the chimney, and I never told anyone about it, and I got lots of things for Christmas, and not one of the things I'd written for. Did you feel awful rotten? Yes, I did. Awful. I say, Joan, importantly, I've got a secret. Do tell me, William, she pleaded. Can't. It's a cross-me-throat secret. She was mystified and impressed. How lovely, William! Is it something you're going to do? He considered. It might be, he said. I'd love to help. She fixed adoring blue eyes upon him. Well, I'll see, said the Lord of Creation. I say, Joan, you coming to my party? Oh, yes! Well, there's an awful lot coming. Johnny Brent, and all that lot. I'm jolly well not looking forward to it, I can tell you. Oh, I'm so sorry. Why did you ask them, William? William laughed bitterly. Why did I invite them, he said? I don't invite people to my parties. They do that. In William's vocabulary, they always signified his immediate family circle. William had a strong imagination. When an idea took hold upon his mind, it was almost impossible for him to let it go. He was quite accustomed to Joan's adoring homage. The scornful mockery of his auburn-haired friend was something quite new, and in some strange fashion it intrigued and fascinated him. Mentally he recalled her excited little face, flushed with eagerness, as she described the expected spread. Mentally also he conceived a vivid picture of the long waiting on Christmas Eve, the slowly fading hope, the final bitter disappointment. While engaging in furious snowball fights with Ginger, Douglas, and Henry, while annoying peaceful passers-by with well-aimed snow-missiles, while bruising himself and most of his family black and blue on long glassy slides along garden paths, while perloining his family's clothes to adorn various unshapely snowmen, while walking across all the ice, preferably cracked in the neighbourhood, and being several times narrowly rescued from a watery grave, while following all these light holiday pursuits, the picture of the little auburn-haired girl's disappointment was ever vividly present in his mind. The day of his party drew near. My party! he would echo bitterly when anyone of his family mentioned it. I don't want it. I don't want old Johnny Brent and all that lot. I'd just like to uninvite them all. But you want Ginger and Douglas and Henry coaxed his mother. I can have them any time, and I don't like them at parties. They're not the same. I don't like anyone at parties. I don't want a party. But you must have a party, William, to ask back people who ask you. William took up his previous attitude. Well, where's the sense of it, he groaned. As usual he had the last word but left his audience unconvinced. They began on him a full hour before his guests were due. He was brushed and scrubbed and scoured and cleaned. He was compressed into an eaten suit and patent leather pumps, and finally deposited in the drawing-room, cowed and despondent, his noble spirit all but broken. The guests began to arrive. William shook hands politely with three strangers, shining with soap, brushed to excess, and clothed in ceremonial eaten suits, who in ordinary life were Ginger, Douglas and Henry. They then sat down and gazed at each other in strained and unnatural silence. They could find nothing to say to each other. Ordinary topics seemed to be precluded by their festive appearance and the formal nature of the occasion. Their informal meetings were usually celebrated by impromptu wrestling matches. This being debarred, a stiff, unnatural atmosphere descended upon them. William was a host. They were guests. They had all listened to final maternal admonitions in which the word manners and politeness recurred at frequent intervals. They were, in fact, for the time being, complete strangers. Then Joan arrived and broke the constrained silence. Hello, William. Oh, William, you do look nice. William smiled with distant politeness, but his heart warmed to her. It is always some comfort to learn that one has not suffered in vain. How do you do? he said with a stiff bow. Then Johnny Brent came and after him a host of small boys and girls. William greeted friends and foes alike with the same icy courtesy. Then the conjurer arrived. Mrs. Brown had planned the arrangement most carefully. The supper was laid on the big dining-room table. There was to be conjuring for an hour before supper to break the ice. In the meantime, while the conjuring was going on, the grown-ups who were officiating at the party were to have their meal in peace in the library. William had met the conjurer at various parties and despised him utterly. He despised his futile jokes and high-pitched laugh, and he knew his tricks by heart. They sat in rows in front of him, shining-faced, well-brushed little boys in dark, eaten suits and gleaming collars, and dainty, white-dressed little girls with gay hair ribbons. William sat in the back row near the window and next to him sat Joan. She gazed at his set, expressionless face in mute sympathy. He listened to the monotonous voice of the conjurer. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will proceed to swallow these three needles and these three strands of cotton, and shortly to bring out each needle threaded with a strand of cotton. Will any ladies step forward and examine the needles? Ladies ought to know all about needles, oughtn't they? You young gentlemen don't learn to sew at school, do you? Ha-ha! Perhaps some of you young gentlemen don't know what a needle is! Ha-ha! William scowled, and his thoughts flew off to the little house in the dirty back street. It was Christmas Eve. Her father was coming out. She would be waiting, watching with bright expectant eyes for the spread she had demanded from Father Christmas to welcome her returning parent. It was a beastly shame. She was a silly little ass, anyway, not to believe him. He told her there wasn't any Father Christmas. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will bring out the three needles threaded with the three strands of cotton. Watch carefully, ladies and gentlemen. There. One, two, three. Now I don't advise you young ladies and gentlemen to try this trick. Needles are very indigestible to some people. Ha-ha! Not to me, of course. I can digest anything. Needles or marbles or matches or glass bowls, as you will soon see. Ha-ha! Now to proceed, ladies and gentlemen. William looked at the clock and sighed. Anyway, there'd be supper soon, and that was a jolly good one, because he'd had a look at it. Suddenly the inscrutable look left his countenance. He gave a sudden gasp, and his whole face lit up. Joan turned to him. Come on, he whispered, rising stealthily from his seat. The room was in half-darkness, and the conjurer was just producing a white rabbit from his left toe, so that few noticed William's quiet exit by the window followed by that of the blindly obedient Joan. You wait, he whispered in the darkness of the garden. She waited, shivering in her little white muslin dress, till he returned from the stable, wheeling a hand-cart consisting of a large packing case on wheels and finished with a handle. He wheeled it round to the open French window that led into the dining-room. Come on, he whispered again. Following his example she began to carry the plates of sandwiches, sausage rolls, meat pies, bread and butter, cakes and biscuits of every variety from the table to the hand-cart. On the top they balanced carefully the plates of jelly and blanche and dishes of trifle, and round the sides they packed armfuls of crackers. At the end she whispered softly, What's it for, William? It's the secret, he said, the cross-me-throat secret I told you. Am I going to help? she said in delight. He nodded. Just wait a minute, he added, and crept from the dining-room to the hall and upstairs. He returned with a bundle of clothing which he proceeded to arrange in the garden. He first donned his own red dressing-gown and then wound a white scarf round his head, tying it under his chin so that the ends hung down. I make and believe I'm Father Christmas, he deigned to explain, and I make and believe this white stuff is hair and beard, and this is for you to wear so as you won't get cold. He held out a little white satin cloak, edged with swans down. Oh, how lovely, William, but it's not my cloak, it's Sadie Murford's. Never mind, you can wear it, said William generously. Then, taking the handles of the cart, he set off down the drive. From the drawing-room came the sound of a chorus of delight as the conjurer produced a goldfish in a glass bowl from his head. From the kitchen came the sound of the hilarious laughter of the maids. Only in the dining-room, with its horrible expanse of empty table, was silence. They walked down the road without speaking till Joan gave a little excited laugh. This is fun, William, I do wonder what we're going to do. You'll see, said William, I'd better not tell you yet. I promised a cross-me-throat promise I wouldn't tell anyone. All right, William, she said sweetly. I don't mind a bit. The evening was dark and rather foggy, so that the strange couple attracted little attention except when passing beneath the street lamps. Then, certainly, people stood still and looked at William and his cart in open-mouthed amazement. At last they turned down a back street towards a door that stood open to the dark foggy night. Inside the room was a bare table at which sat a little girl, her blue anxious eyes fixed on the open door. I hope he gets here before Dad, she said. I wouldn't like Dad to come and find it not ready. The woman on the bed closed her eyes wearily. I don't think he'll come now, dearie. We must just get on without it. The little girl sprang up, her pale cheek suddenly flushed. Oh, listen! she cried. Something's coming! They listened in breathless silence while a sound of wheels came down the street towards the empty door. Then an old hand cart appeared in the doorway and behind it William, in his strange attire, and Joan in her fairy-like white. White cloak, white dress, white socks and shoes, her bright curls clustered with gleaming fog jewels. The little girl clasped her hands. Her face broke into a wrapped smile. Her blue eyes were like stars. Oh, oh! she cried. It's Father Christmas and a fairy! Without a word William pushed the cart through the doorway into the room and began to remove its contents and place them on the table. First the jellies and trifles and blemanges, then the meat pies, pastries, sausage rolls, sandwiches, biscuits and cakes, sugar coated, cream interlayered, full of plums and nuts and fruit. William's mother had had wide experience and knew well what food most appealed to small boys and girls. Moreover, she had provided plentifully for her twenty guests. The little girl was past speech. The woman looked at them in dumb wonder, then. Why, you are the boy she was talking to, she said at last. It's real kind of you. She was getting that upset. It had of broke her heart if nothing had come and I couldn't do nothing. It's real kind of you, sir. Her eyes were misty. Joan placed the last cake on the table and William, who was rather warm after his exertions, removed his scarf. The child gave a little sobbing laugh. Oh, isn't it lovely? I'm so happy. You're the funny boy, aren't you, dressed up as Father Christmas? Or did Father Christmas send you? Or were you Father Christmas all the time? May I kiss the fairy? Would she mind? She's so beautiful. Joan came forward and kissed her shyly, and the woman on the bed smiled unsteadily. It's real kind of you both, she murmured again. Then the door opened, and the lord and master of the house entered after his six-months absence. He came in no sheepish hangdog fashion. He entered cheerily and boisterously, as any parent might on returning from a hard-earned holiday. Hello, Mrs. Hello, kid. Hello, what's all this ear? His eyes fell upon William. Hello, young gent. Happy Christmas! William murmured politely. Time to you and many of them. How are you, Mrs. Kid looked after you all right? That's right. Oh, I say, where's the grub come from? Fair makes me mouth-water. I haven't seen nothing like this, not for some time. There was a torrent of explanations, everyone talking at once. He gave a loud guffaw at the end. Well, we are much obliged to this young gent and this little lady, and now we'll have a good old supper. This is all right, this is. Now, Mrs., you have a good feed. Now, for we begin, I say, three cheers for the young gent and little lady. Come on, now, hip hip hooray. Now, little lady, you come here. That's fine, that is. Now, we'll have a meat pie. Who's for a meat pie? Come on, Mrs., that's right. We'll all have meat pies. This ear's something like Christmas, eh? We've not had a Christmas like this, not for many long year. Now, hurry up, kid. Don't spend all your time laughing. Now, ladies and gents, who's for a sausage roll? All of us? Come on, then. I mustn't eat too heavy, or I won't be able to sing to your afterwards, will I? I've got some fine songs, young gent. And, kid, here I'll dance for you. She's a fine little dancer, she is. Now, come on, ladies and gents. Sandwiches. More pies. Come on. They laughed and chattered merrily. The woman sat up in bed, her eyes bright, and her cheeks flushed. To William and Joan it was like some strange and wonderful dream. And at that precise moment Mrs. Brown had sunk down upon the nearest dining-room chair, on the verge of tears, and twenty pairs of hungry, horrified eyes, in twenty clean, staring, open-mouthed little faces, surveyed the bare expanse of the dining-room table. And the cry that went up all round was, Where's William? And then, Where's Joan? They searched the house and garden and stable for them in vain. They sent the twenty enraged guests home, supperless and aggrieved. Has William eaten all our suppers? they said. Where is he? Is he dead? People will never forget, wailed Mrs. Brown. It's simply dreadful, and where is William? They rang up police stations for miles around. If they've eaten all that food, the two of them, said Mrs. Brown, almost distraught, they'll die. They may be dying in some hospital now. And I do wish Mrs. Murford would stop ringing up about Sadie's cloak. I've told her it's not here. Meantime, there was dancing and singing and games and cracker-pulling in a small house, in a back street, not very far away. I've never had such a lovely time in my life, gasped the kid breathlessly at the end of one of the many games into which William had initiated them. I've never, never, never. We won't forget you in a hurry, young man, her father added, nor the little lady neither. We'll have many talks about this ear. Joan was sitting on the bed, laughing and panting. Her curls all disordered. I wish, said William wistfully, I wish you'd let me come with you when you go stealing some day. I'm not going stealing no more, young gent, said his friend solemnly. I got a job, a real steady job, brick-laying. And I'm going to stick to it. All good things must come to an end, and soon William donned his red dressing gown again and Joan, her borrowed cloak, and they helped to store the remnants of the feast in the larder. The remnants of the feast would provide the ex-burglar and his family with food for many days to come. Then they took the empty hand-cart, and, after many fawn farewells, set off homeward through the dark. Mr. Brown had come home, and assumed charge of operations. Ethel was weeping on the sofa in the library. Oh, dear little William, she sobbed, I do wish I'd always been kind to him. Mrs. Brown was reclining, pale, and haggard in the armchair. There's the rough-burrow canal, John, she was saying weakly, and Joan's mother will always say it was our fault, oh poor little William. It's a good ten miles away, said her husband, dryly. I don't think even William. He rang up fiercely. Con found these brainless police. Hello, any news? A boy and girl, and supper for twenty can't disappear off the face of the earth? No, there had been no trouble at home. There probably will be when he turns up, but there was none before. If he wanted to run away, why would he burden himself with a supper for twenty? Why, one minute. The front door opened, and Mrs. Brown ran into the hall. A well-known voice was heard, speaking quickly and irritably. I just went away, that's all. I just thought of something I wanted to do, that's all. Yes, I did take the supper. I just wanted it for something. It's a secret what I wanted it for. I— William, said Mr. Brown. Through the scenes that followed, William preserved a dignified silence, even to the point of refusing any explanation. Such explanation as there was filtered through from Jones' mother by means of the telephone. It was all William's idea, Jones' mother said plaintively. Joan would never have done anything if William hadn't practically made her. I expect she's caught her death of cold. She's in bed now. Yes, so is William. I can't think what they wanted to take all the food for, and he was just a common man straight from prison. It's dreadful. I do hope they haven't picked up any awful language. Have you given Joan some quinine? Oh, Mrs. Murford's just rung up to see if Sadie's cloak has turned up. Will you send it round? I feel so upset by it all, if it wasn't Christmas Eve. The houses occupied by Williams and Jones' families respectively were semi-detached, but Williams and Jones' bedroom windows faced each other, and there was only about five yards between them. There came to Williams' ears, as he lay drowsily in bed, the sound of a gentle rattle at the window. He got up and opened it. At the opposite window a little white-robed figure leaned out, whose golden curls shone in the starlight. William, she whispered, I threw some beads to see if you were awake. Were your folks mad? Awful, said William leconically. Mine were, too. I didn't care, did you? No, I didn't, not a bit. William, wasn't it fun? I wish it was just beginning again, don't you? Yes, I just do. I say, Joan, wasn't she a jolly little kid, and didn't she dance fine? Yes. A pause, then. William, you don't like her better than me, do you? William considered. No, I don't, he said at last. A soft sigh of relief came through the darkness. I'm so glad. Good night, William. Good night, said William sleepily, drawing down his window, as he spoke. End of Chapter 14 and the end of More William by Rich Malcrompton. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.